


To Shame Eclipses (Lachesism)

by hollowbirds (torturousthings)



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco, Ryan Ross - Fandom
Genre: ?? - Freeform, Angst, Anxiety, Canon, Dogs, F/M, M/M, Ryden, Rydon, i mean yeah canon, i wanted to try it out idk, modern day ryden, mostly - Freeform, some good ol texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-02-01 08:11:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12700887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torturousthings/pseuds/hollowbirds
Summary: They need to stop bringing him up in interviews. They really do.or, a tale of old contacts and a sudden wish to reconnect.——lachesism: n. the desire to be struck by disaster — to survive a plane crash, to lose everything in a fire, to plunge over a waterfall — which would put a kink in the smooth arc of your life, and forge it into something hardened and flexible and sharp, not just a stiff prefabricated beam that barely covers the gap between one end of your life and the other.





	1. A Brief Allusion

**Author's Note:**

> i uh, started a new thing. it just sort of... happened and i feel terrible because i have five thousand wips but anyway
> 
> i hope you enjoy this!! it was fun to write. won't be as long as my other Long Fics, but a few chapters can't hurt anybody :')

“…Ryan Ross?” 

 

 

I want to punch the interviewer in the face. 

 

 

I want to punch that fucking smile off her face, to make sure that no one else ever dares let those words escape their mouth in that order again, but I smile back instead. Like I do every day, not because I’m trying to hide, but because I’m a good little rock star and my feelings only matter when they’re sung into a microphone, not in front of cameras. I smile and tell her that I haven’t talked to Ryan in a few years, now, but that we’re still on good terms, of course. We’re grand; we always have been. 

 

The lights are blinding, her teeth are too white, and she doesn’t have a name tag. She does, however, have a gold necklace that disappears into her cleavage, like an arrow pointing towards the place where I shouldn’t let my eyes linger. She knows I’m married. She doesn’t care. She’ll probably slip a note in my jacket as I walk out of the studio; it’s the same thing every time. I can picture her painted fingers folding the paper over again and again, so it’ll be inconspicuous when she slides it into my pocket. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes at all, a plastic facade forged by years in the industry. She doesn’t know how to smile any other way anymore. 

 

“Oh, that’s nice!” 

 

Yeah, it’s nice. Nice sums up the relationship I have with my ex bandmates, right after “nonexistent” and “awkward”. I wonder how her lipstick would look smeared on my knuckles; if her mouth would bleed. Maybe it’d be the same colour. There, that’d be a good headline for tomorrow’s papers. _Rock Star Punches Interviewer Over Ex Band Member._

 

That ought to make it clear enough for him, right? 

 

I’m just not sure I’m relevant enough to make the papers anymore, and I can’t remember if he read them or not. Probably not. Still worth a shot.

 

“Brendon Urie from Panic! at the Disco, guys!” 

 

God, her voice is irritating even when it’s announcing the best news so far. We’re done. 

 

I look at the camera and force a smile one last time, not even thankful that she made the extra effort to pronounce my name right. She’s not scoring points with me, even if she’s watching me closely to pick up the slightest hint that I’ll want to sleep with her. Desperate. She reeks desperation. This video won’t get many views by my standard, but it might be one of their hits. I'd never even heard of this company until they emailed me.

 

The director nods my way and I stand up to shake his hand briefly. He tells me he’d love to see me soon, that it’s been a pleasure to work with me, and I don’t tell him I never want to see this place, or him, again. His hand is bigger than mine, callous and hard. A worker’s hand; he wasn’t always in this industry. I look into his weary blue eyes and try to guess what he was. A factory worker. A plumber. No one knows how he ended up being director, but no one cares enough to ask; they’re all in this for the money. He gestures to my belongings with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes either. One of the assistants probably went through my pockets, just to see what kind of useless junk a celebrity stuffs into his jacket, if it’s twenty-four karat gold instead of old tissues and small change. I must be disappointing. 

 

I pull my jacket on as the staff turns the filming lights off, leaving the room in the cold glow of the single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. They don’t have a high budget; the only cozy place in this room is the corner they film in where they cram celebrities, hoping we won’t see the cracks in the walls or the humidity seeping in from overhead. Two mustard coloured sofas oriented just so the interviewer is at an uncomfortable angle of the interviewee. It’s always like that; they put you in an awkward position in hopes of getting more information out of you. We’re all weaker when we’re destabilised, and people in this business are vultures. Ruthless bastards with plastic smiles and eight layers of foundation. 

 

Today was particularly shitty, though. Bringing Ryan up was a low blow, even for them. 

 

I slide a hand into my pocket and crumple the slip of paper I find in it before dropping it into the trashcan as I walk out. I don’t even bother to look because I know; a number, a few x’s and o’s behind that, and a single letter because signing a full name’s just not sexy enough. I’ve seen slips like these too many times to be surprised by what’s on them. 

 

Fans, venue workers, interviewers. There are no exceptions. 

 

Men and women thinking that because I’m famous, the wedding band on my finger means nothing, that I’ll fall into bed with them, write a song about it and about how infidelity is bad but they were so attractive that I _just couldn’t resist._ What a fucking joke. We’re not all Mick Jaggers. We can keep it in our pants. Most of the time.

 

I’m lucky to have Sarah. She grounds me, she keeps me levelheaded, and, most of all, she knows me. She knew what she was signing up for when she said yes, again and again. I don’t deserve her at all, but she’s sticking around. The last thing I can do is complain. The door of the studio creaks nastily as I push it open and cast a last glance toward the mediocre set. God, they really need to invest more or they’ll all be unemployed a year from now. 

 

The wind outside is colder than expected, so I hurry. My car’s still parked where I left it and I slide into the driver’s seat, slamming the door closed after me. The silence is nice after the constant hustle and bustle of the interview, which has left me with a numb headache as per usual. I’m used to it by now, but it’s still not a nice feeling. My phone’s digging into my thigh and I reach for it, like every time I get into my car. But, unlike every time, I find myself scrolling through my contacts, the celebrity numbers that I’ll never call, the numbers of family members. And then there it is. Not celebrity anymore, but not family either. It’s funny. I once thought he’d be both. 

 

He’s still saved there as Ry. Not Ryan Ross, not Ryan, not the stupid diminutive of his full name. Ry. 

 

There’s a blurry picture of him laughing as contact picture, with his stupid bowl cut. I can remember it appearing on a shitty iPhone 3G screen when he called me. Sometimes I don’t know why I keep backups on every single phone I use. People stay in your phone longer than they stay in your mind, these days. I consider deleting it altogether. I’ve been needing a contact cleansing for a while now. 

 

But for some reason, I press on the _Message_ button instead. There’s no messaging history, a blank screen staring back at me. We haven’t had anything to tell each other in years. Forced small talk when we bump into each other, like life is laughing at us. Maybe he’s even changed his number; he probably has. What I’m about to do shouldn’t matter, then. 

 

I hit send before my brain has time to catch up with my fingers and stare at the message as it takes its place on the blank screen, a blot of blue against the electronic white. I can’t believe I just did that. 

 

_[3:57pm] Brendon: hey_

 

I watch the loading bar until it disappears, a little _Delivered_ appearing beneath the message instead. Delivered. Somewhere in LA, a phone just went off, three letters I wish I could take back appearing on the screen. Delivered, like a letter in a mailbox, but it’s so much easier to make a stupid decision when all you have to do is type three letters on a glass screen. Like breaking up with someone is easier to do when you can blame someone else instead.

 

I lock my phone and throw it across to the passenger seat before starting the car. My heart’s pounding in my ears; it must be because I haven’t eaten anything since this morning. The engine comes to life, a reassuring humming that makes me less anxious.

 

Bullshit. I’m not anxious. 

 

I don’t check my phone the whole ride home. Because texting and driving just isn’t safe. 


	2. Not Quite Spectral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd promised myself i'd update this slowly to give myself time to write more, but i clearly lack something called self control. 
> 
> oh well. i hope you enjoy :)

 

“Babe, I’m home!” 

 

Bogart’s jumping around my feet as soon as I cross the threshold and I hang my jacket up before lifting him off the floor, holding him against me like I do every time I get home. He’s like a hyperactive bundle of warmth, which is always appreciated. I’m not even sure Sarah’s here; I remember her telling me about hanging out with Linda sometime but I must’ve missed the specific date. I really do try to keep everything in mind, but it’s not as easy as it seems. Bogart licks my face, warm tongue against my jaw. There’s no one in the living room, an empty glass abandoned on the coffee table and Penny asleep on the sofa next to it, snoring lightly. 

 

“Sarah?” My voice bounces off the white walls. 

 

She’s not in the kitchen either, which means that she’s either taking a nap or at the Smiths’. I put Bogart down and pull the fridge door open to get myself a beer; I deserve that after the bullshit interview I just gave. Sometimes I feel like I should just turn them down, but they have no other members to go to. I used to be able to avoid interviews by letting Jon or Spencer go instead, even if they always wanted the lyricist and the lead singer. It’s unfair, really. The other guys wrote just as much, but being front and centre also meant giving the most interviews. The industry is relentless, always seeking for more. More content, more followers, more views. More, more, more. It’s the motto. The one rule they live by.

 

The glass bottle is cold against my palm as I search for a bottle opener in the drawer it’s usually in, but it’s nowhere to be found. I groan in annoyance and look in the other drawers it could be in, to no avail. This is ridiculous. Why do we only have one opener?

 

I end up opening it with a lighter I find on the kitchen counter, like we used to do in the tour bus, where lighters were much more common than the futile object that is a bottle opener. We were satisfied with the simplest things, back then. A shitty pillow, a lukewarm beer. A lighter as a bottle opener. A warm body to hold at night. We were young. We had it all. We were the ones that would never grow old. 

 

I drop onto the couch next to Penny, who’s still sound asleep. Bogart jumps up on my other side, tail wagging. I tilt my beer towards him and he sniffs it curiously. 

 

“Want some of this, buddy?” 

 

He looks at me, black eyes a mix of confusion and that dumb adorable look dogs always have, the one that says “I have no idea what you’re saying but I love you anyway because you’re great.” I chuckle and take a swig of my beer, scratching him between the ears. His tail makes a familiar noise hitting the fake leather of the couch. I wish it was this easy to convince people of your greatness. Invite them to dinner once, and they idolise you forever. 

 

Well, I guess that’s kind of what I have. 

 

I could invite any of the starry-eyed kids for dinner and they’d stare at me for the whole of it. They’d tell their grandkids about it, how they were deemed important enough to share a meal with _someone_ , just for one evening.

 

I know he wouldn’t be fooled, though. He was never one to be duped by the fancy lights or the expensive food, always seeing the ugly reality underneath. He wasn’t oblivious enough to be happy. 

 

My phone hasn’t buzzed so I don’t bother to look at it, fishing it out of my pocket before discarding it on the coffee table, all the while suppressing the odd jolt of disappointment shooting through me. I wasn’t expecting anything. I stare at the phone. God. This isn’t something I should be doing. 

 

But I lunge towards it before I can register the movement, and suddenly it’s in my hand again, the screen lighting up. Shit. I had it on Do Not Disturb. My eyes skip on the words, like I need to make sure they’re real, that they’re not some kind of mirage. 

 

_[4:22pm] Ry: Who’s this?_

 

My stomach lurches and it suddenly feels like having that beer wasn’t a good idea after all. Maybe we don’t all keep backups of contacts for years. Some of us start fresh, and I’m learning that the hard way; it hurts to see the familiar name coupled with the formal distance of his words. I’m tempted to tell him I’m the ghost of Hobo just to fuck with him, but that definitely wouldn’t start the conversation the way I want it to go. Not that it’s going anywhere right now, but it could be worse. He could’ve told me to fuck off. A stranger is better than an enemy. 

 

But we’re not strangers, are we? 

 

_[4:46pm] Brendon: a ghost_

 

Once again, I regret it as soon as I hit send. As if this is the time to be witty. I sit back further into the couch and drop the hand holding the phone against my stomach, not bothering to lock it. Bogart calmed down, head between his front paws, watery eyes looking up at me. My phone vibrates against my palm and I lift it up again, eyes scanning the screen automatically. Something else shoots through my veins this time. Adrenaline. Just like before each show. It’s rare to find that feeling any other time, and I can’t believe a fucking _text_ is making it resurface. 

 

_[4:47pm] Ry: you’ve always been a shitty liar, you know that_

 

So he knows who I am. I can’t help but smile because this isn’t the first time he tells me that, so he must know. It was almost an inside joke that we and the guys had; I remember trying to lie to venue security in Florida about having stolen a mini-fridge from the dressing room. Spencer was on the brink of exploding from stifling his laughter. I think they pretended to believe me to make me feel better; it definitely worked. We kept that mini-fridge for a long time. My phone vibrates again and I tighten my grip on it almost instinctively. 

 

_[4:47pm] Ry: & i doubt ghosts can physically hold a phone_

 

Only him would try to argue about the physical properties of phantoms. I’ve definitely got the right number. I sit back into the couch and think of what to answer before typing it down, a smile on my face. 

 

_[4:48pm] Brendon: dont discriminate against ghosts_

 

I wonder if that’ll make him smile. I hope so. God, I haven’t seen him smile in so long. 

 

I tip the bottle again and feel the cold liquid on my lips, the bubbles lightly prickling my tongue. My phone is still. Penny opens an eye, then both before pushing herself on her feet and hopping off the couch, footsteps muffled by the thick rug covering the floor. I look at my phone again. Nothing. 

 

I hear the front door opening and I stand up hastily, leaving my phone on the couch. Guilt nags at me but I’ve done nothing wrong. It’s just texts.

 

“Babe?” 

 

“Yeah, I’m here,” I call back, making my way around the sofa to go greet her. I hear her heels on the tiles before I see her. She was still in bed when I left early this morning, and I was out all day. I hate it when we don’t have lunch together. I hate it when I’m away and she has to eat by herself, by the kitchen table. It doesn’t seem fair. 

 

But we’re both here now and Sarah’s wearing the long black coat she bought last winter with thigh high boots that make her look just as badass as she is. God, I love her. 

 

“I didn’t know you had an appointment,” I say, pulling her close and tugging softly at a strand of hair. She’s cut it shorter. I like it. She lifts her hand to touch the side of my face, blue eyes twinkling, a small smile playing on her lips. 

 

“I didn’t,” she says, “But I wanted a change. Linda says short hair brings out my eyes.” 

 

“Good call,” I whisper before leaning forward and kissing her softly, and she smiles, hands going to cup my neck. And I forget about my silent phone on the couch a few steps away, forget about ghosts and whether they can hold things. It’s her. Just her. It always has been. I bury my head in the crook of her neck and breathe in her familiar perfume. 

 

“I missed you,” I say, hearing my own voice muffled by her scarf. Her arms wrap around my shoulders. 

 

“I missed you too.” 


	3. Past The Witching Hour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a lot of feelings about this. 
> 
> i have a lot of feelings about ryden in general, but goddamn.

Waking up at 2:33am is definitely making the list of things I hate the most, along with banging toes on furniture and our scumbag of a president. The alarm clock displays those three evil numbers in a blindingly bright white, glowing in their midnight glory. I roll over to look at Sarah, who’s still sound asleep, and though I can’t make her features out in the dark,I know them. The dark lashes against the pale skin, the way her mouth is slightly parted, her hand resting on the pillow next to her head. I know her body as well as my own, perhaps worshipping it a bit more. My phone’s on the nightstand and I reach for it automatically. It’s crazy how it’s the first thing I do, whenever I wake up. _Phone._ _Check._

 

The screen lights up, brighter than the alarm clock. 

 

“Fuck,” I groan, my eyes watering from the sudden light, and Sarah shifts in her sleep. I hope I didn’t wake her up. There are a ton of notifications, which doesn’t come as a surprise; it still happens even if I have most apps muted. Most recently, four messages from Zack. I heard he’s taking Kala hiking somewhere for the weekend. 

 

_[1:54am] Zack: i forgot to pack snacks fuck this_

 

_[1:58am] Zack: nevermind_

 

_[1:59am] Zack: [Picture attached]_

 

_[1:59am] Zack: this is why i love her._

 

I smile at the picture of him cuddling a bunch of Dorito packets by a fire. If Kala knows to pack snacks for her boyfriend because she knows he’ll forget, then she’s the one, no doubt. I don’t text him back, though, because it’s late and they’re probably busy at the top of whatever mountain they’re on. It can wait till morning. 

 

I scroll further down. Twitter. Instagram. People I know tagging me in things I don’t particularly care for. I’ve become really good at being selective for the information that _actually_ matters, even at half past two in the morning, but I freeze when I see his name again, in the midst of all the other things that don’t really matter. Not compared to that. Should it not? 

 

_[00:11am] Ry: whatd you text me for?_

 

God. The only time I go to sleep remotely earlier, and he chooses to answer late. He must be thinking I’m avoiding the question, like some kind of coward. He’s making it clear: no time for joking around; he’s moved past that now. We’re grown ups. My fingers hover above the screen. Hell, he’s probably not even thinking of this. 

 

_[2:35am] Brendon: idk_

 

The lamest excuse in the history of excuses. There’s gotta be something else I can say. 

 

_[2:35am] Brendon: wanted to see how you were i guess_

 

Great. That’s much better. I sound like a teenage girl trying to get back with her ex over text after a phone call breakup. That’s great. I quit the messaging app as quickly as I can, as if that will take back the entirety of the conversation, starting with the mistake I made after a shitty interview. Great. 

 

I run a hand over my face and exhale deeply. I’m thirty. I shouldn’t be making those mistakes anymore. My phone buzzes in my other hand, immediately followed by a hopeful pang in my chest. I shouldn’t be feeling like this when I’m in bed with my wife, for fuck’s sake. 

 

_[2:37am] Ry: doing good._

 

Of course he is. His life has been better ever since he decided I wasn’t to be a part of it anymore, and the thought of it stings a bit as it finally takes its place in my mind. He’s better off without me. 

 

It’s not as if I didn’t know; I know he’s happy, even if he’s quiet about it. But seeing it displayed on a screen, purposefully, is something entirely different. He can confidently say he’s doing good, and that hurts, even if I know I could say the same. Not that it’d affect him the least bit. 

 

_“…Than any boy you’ll ever meet.”_ A line I sing every night, delighting everyone in the room, definitely turning more than a few on. But what they all forget is that that boy isn’t me; it’s him. And, by God, he’s right. I’ve never had better. 

 

A picture flashes in front of my eyes, a scene from years ago, one that I thought I’d forgotten. Him showing me the lyrics for a new song, trying to explain just what it meant, what I was supposed to convey, but I knew. He didn’t even have to say anything. His written words had been more than enough, painting a picture much too realistic for me to not imagine him in it. 

 

“I’ve never written anything this… sexual,” he’d confessed, all bright eyes and flushed cheeks. “I need you to make it believable.” 

 

It had been tough falling asleep that night. Partly because I was afraid I would never do it justice, partly because I couldn’t get him out of my head at all. That was a moment I fell in love with.

 

And that’s when it hits me, like a thousand million tiny pieces finally fitting together. 

 

It was love. No matter how much we’d both denied it, how the words were never whispered and the glances were always stolen ones, it was something more than just his body, his hands, his touch. It was something about the way his laugh was always hushed unless we were alone, the way his eyes would flicker to the people he cared about most when he thought no one was watching, the way his hands would automatically go to his neck when he didn’t know what to say. The little things that I’d picked up over the years. Not the hunger in his kisses. Not the want in his eyes when we were stripped of everything but our consciences, but the way his gaze would automatically turn to me when he didn’t know what to tell the interviewers anymore. The way he’d always pick at his nails. The stupid vests. The things that made him, him. The boy I didn’t know I loved. 

 

Some part of me secretly hopes those things are still the same. 

 

I stare at the screen, and suddenly everything feels just a dimension short of reality. When did this happen? At what point did we become formal with each other? When did this mutual decision become mutual illusion instead?

 

I really shouldn’t answer. That’s becoming a lot of things I shouldn’t be doing, but am anyway.

Is it still a mistake if you’re aware you’re making it? God, I hope it is. There’s no other excuse for this. 

 

_[2:39am] Brendon: why are you awake_

 

It feels like a bold move; too bold for my own good. I should turn my phone off and go back to sleep, because no one’s quite in their right mind in the middle of the night. But the three dots appear in their speech bubble, and a knot forms in my stomach as I picture him lying in bed, too, the light of his phone bathing his features in an almost eerie white glow. His dog is snoring at his side because he can never resist her and lets her hop on every night even if he’s sworn not to. He never could resist.

 

_[2:40am] Ry: none of your business, Urie_

 

I can’t help but wonder whether his phone autocorrects my name for it to have a capital letter or if he’s just paying particular attention at two in the morning, but I don’t have the time to make up my mind because another message appears right underneath it.

 

_[2:40am] Ry: why are you?_

 

Not that he cares. Not that he cares. Not that he cares. It takes me far too long to be convinced. There are so many things I could be telling him right now. I could make him believe that I still party till the sun rises every night, or I could play Mr Mystery right back at him. But my tired brain preaches what feels like honesty. 

 

_[2:41am] Brendon: can’t sleep_

 

The two words take their place on the screen and suddenly, they become the truth. My mind isn’t hazy anymore, and I sit up against the headboard. I can’t sleep. I loved him. I glance to my right, to Sarah’s sleeping figure. I _love_ her. My screen lights up again and my eyes go straight to it. 

 

God, this is all sorts of wrong. 

 

_[2:41am] Ry: whats keeping you up_

 

_[2:42am] Ry: conscience or demons?_

 

It’s funny he should be the one saying that, because I remember holding him through the night on more than one occasion, when nightmares from his childhood resurfaced and made him wide-eyed and sweat soaked in his bunk, across from mine. We’d stay up on the lounge couch all night, listening to the miles speeding off beneath the bus tyres until the hours made our eyelids heavier than we could bear. I can’t believe I didn’t realise back then. It was so obvious. 

 

God, I need to stop remembering, but bits and pieces seem to keep coming back, and I can’t seem to make it stop. Fatigue does that. Opens the gates and makes you powerless to close them again. I should just sleep. Not think about him or every single thing that made me fall in love so obliviously, back then. 

 

I lock my phone and put it back on the nightstand, where it belongs, before rolling over and pulling the covers to my shoulders, feeling Sarah’s warmth radiate from her. I want to take her in my arms so I’m not tempted to roll back around, to answer him and his stupid questions. 

 

Who does he think he is? Does he really think that he has me figured out all over again, like there are only two reasons for me to be awake in the middle of the night? It’s fucking ridiculous. I shouldn’t text him back in the morning either. Delete the conversation and pretend nothing happened. He’s disposable. He’s not a part of my life anymore.

 

But, fuck. 

 

I roll over anyway. 

 

I grab my phone almost like it’s done me wrong, and it’s easier to blame an object than to bear the knowledge that it’s my own damn fault. The light doesn’t hurt my eyes as much as the first time, which is only a reminder of how little willpower I have. It hasn’t even been ten minutes. What the fuck am I doing? 

 

I type down the first thing that comes to my mind, hesitate, and delete it. Honesty might be too honest in some cases. Might as well make him think he’s right. 

 

_[2:50am] Brendon: healthy mix of both_

 

And only one word spins in my mind as I turn my phone off for the night, as I stretch my hand out to lace my fingers with Sarah’s in the dark. The one word I’m too fucking spineless to send. The one thing that’s keeping me up now, that I can’t let him know. 

 

_Regret._


	4. NRWC

Guilt is a terrible thing. 

 

It eats you up inside. It rots you to the core in one night, turns your insides to ash. Makes the simplest things look insurmountable, the smallest concepts hard to understand. Makes you paranoid and suspicious of everything you know, even the people you’ve vowed to trust. 

 

“Morning,” I say as I walk into the kitchen. Sarah’s sitting on one of the stools at the island, sipping what smells like coffee out of a steaming mug. She’s wearing a silk kimono, her legs bare. Her eyes find me and I freeze for a split second, remembering the previous night. 

 

Oh, shit. Oh God. 

 

She knows. She went through my phone this morning and she knows everything, and now she’ll want a divorce. I almost dash back into the bedroom to throw my phone against the wall, but I don’t. Sarah sets the mug down and leans against the counter, her chin in her hand. 

 

“Morning,” she smiles before picking something up that looks too much like my phone. My stomach drops but I recognise her striped phone case soon enough. Thank fuck. She frowns, eyes scanning the screen before looking up at me. That’s it. She has screenshots. She knows. 

 

“Have you received the email from Jake? He said he’d send it to me, too, but I didn’t get anything.” 

 

Relief feels like a rush of adrenaline right then. She doesn’t know anything. She doesn’t know I talked to Ryan. It’s okay. 

 

And what if she did? I didn’t do anything wrong. They were just texts. And now they won’t be anything at all, because I’m not going to answer him again. 

 

I walk up to Sarah and kiss the top of her head before heading towards the coffee machine. The tiles are cold beneath my bare feet. 

 

“I don’t know. Haven’t checked yet.” Jake was supposed to send us the pictures from last tour; Sarah likes to have her favourites developed and make a scrapbook of them. There’s one for each tour, except for Nothing Rhymes. She wasn’t there for Nothing Rhymes. I shrug, turning the coffee machine on. “Maybe he forgot. Dude’s busy all the time.” 

 

Sometimes I wish we could trade places, Jake and I. I wouldn’t want to give up music for anything in the world, but sometimes being somewhere other than the spotlight seems like the most desirable thing. I could be behind a camera at all times, invisible, freezing frames of other people’s lives. Stay in my own little world. 

 

“Okay. I’ll text him after you check.” 

 

“Mhm.” 

 

The coffee pours into the mug, steam rising up as it fills up. I grab it once it’s done and blow on it a little. Coffee is the start of everything. Sometimes I wonder if it isn’t the only thing keeping me going. Coffee, and the girl sitting just a few feet away from me. 

 

I lean against the counter and take a small sip from the mug as I look at her. How does she manage to be beautiful at 9 am, already? The liquid burns my tongue. Fuck. This happens way too often to be excusable. 

 

“Any plans for today?” I ask, ignoring the uncomfortable sensation in my mouth. This is going to bother me all day, isn’t it? 

 

“I promised Linda I’d go help her pick out a dress for her sister’s wedding,” Sarah says, an almost apologetic look in her eyes. “Sorry, babe.” 

 

I take another careful sip of coffee. “That’s alright,” I say. “I’ve got shit to do anyway.” 

 

She relaxes at that, lifting up her mug, an easy smile on her lips. “New ideas?” 

 

I shake my head. No new ideas. My head’s much too messed up for it, and I don’t want to write about this feeling, even if it might prove cathartic. I’ve done it too many times already; the momentary confession always turns into something bigger, my words twisted to become what they all want to hear. Whatever that may be. 

 

“No, just— you know, paperwork.” Sarah rolls her eyes and I chuckle: she hates it with a burning passion, which is understandable, considering it really is the most boring shit to do. It’s gotta be done.

 

There’s a brief silence where I sip my coffee, letting myself zone out for a little, and Sarah finishes her own. The scraping of the stool against the tiles as she pushes herself away from the island throws me right back into our kitchen. I try not to dwell on the thoughts that were creeping into my head. 

 

“I gotta go change,” Sarah says, grabbing her mug and going to set it in the sink, leaving a butterfly kiss on my lips in the same stride. I know she’d taste of coffee if we’d kissed just a little longer, but she vanishes into our room before I have time to process it. God, why does my system always need at least twenty minutes to start up correctly? 

 

I gulp down the rest of my coffee — which burns my tongue even more, but it’s not as if I’m functional in any other way either — and wash both our mugs, feeling the water warm on my hands. One of the dogs’ nails click on the kitchen floor. 

 

My phone’s still on the nightstand when I go back to the bedroom to get it, screen dark, silent. It’s daunting. 

 

Jesus. Get yourself together. It’s just a phone. 

 

It’s just a fucking phone. 

 

The white apple appears on the screen as my finger presses down on the lock button. The first thing that appears after the screen lights up is a missed call from Spencer, who’s left me a voicemail, probably telling me to call him back. I make a mental note to do just that as I scroll further down, apprehending a text back, something that’ll make me make yet another stupid decision. It’s like I’m stringing them together, one after the other, like pearls on a necklace. 

 

I’m sure Sarah would prefer a pearl necklace to… whatever this is, though. Anyone would.

 

And, suddenly, it’s there. A message, innocent, sent in the middle of the night by a surprisingly alert mind. He was always ridiculously good at pulling all-nighters. None of us was a hundred percent sure he wasn’t a vampire. 

 

_[2:54am]_ _Ry: you sure do have a lot of demons_

 

I hate that my first instinct is to ask him what the hell he means by that, but this time I make the right call. It’s the right call to ignore it and call Spencer back. 

 

“Hello?”

 

“Spence, it’s me. You called?” There’s laughter at the end of the line, probably from Linda and her sister.

 

“Yeah, uh — Have fun, babe!” He says, away from the phone. There’s some fumbling, a kissing sound and a brief “I love you.” I smile into my phone and sit down on the bed, remembering them pronouncing those words on their wedding day, and it feels like yesterday. They’re lucky to have each other; I’m not sure Spencer would’ve gotten better as fast as he has if it weren’t for Linda. She’s a force to be reckoned with. 

 

It’s funny to think Sarah knew exactly what she was doing when she suggested inviting both of them over one night, the twinkle of malice in her eyes later revealing that this had been her plan all along. To get my best friend someone to love. Someone to live for. I’d never seen him as happy as on his wedding day, not on our first sold-out show, not when he announced they’d gotten engaged. He was… glowing, the love of his life by his side, and we almost forgot that his childhood best friend wasn’t there to celebrate with us, to see Spencer smile the brightest smile I’ve ever seen. 

 

Ryan didn’t come to Sarah and I’s wedding, either, though there’s no way he didn’t receive the invitation. Maybe he threw it away before even opening it. 

 

No, that’s not like him. He would’ve opened it, considered it, maybe whispered a curse or two under his breath, _then_ thrown it away. Maybe he was afraid of the unlawful thoughts he might’ve had, wondering if my kiss tasted the same on another’s lips as he watched her walking down the aisle. It occurs to me that I could just ask him. He’s a text message away, now. I could just ask him. 

 

“Sorry about that,” Spencer’s voice pulls me back out of the prospect of texting him again. I blink and inhale to calm myself down. I’m such a fucking idiot. 

 

“Anyway, I found a bunch of boxes full of old pictures from Nothing Rhymes the other day,” he says, and my heart skips a beat for no reason that I want to look into. He’s clearly waiting for me to say something to that, but I don't, so he keeps going. “I dunno, thought I could bring them over and we could look through them. They’re rotting away here.” We’ve spent so much time together that I can picture him shrugging, pacing around his living room. He’s probably still in his pyjamas. 

 

“Yeah,” I say before I realise that the word escaped my mouth. “I’m sure Sarah would love them. She’s always complaining about not knowing enough of that tour.” 

 

There’s a reason I don’t talk about it often.

 

“Awesome, I’ll be there in an hour? Gotta shower.” 

 

“Sounds good!” 

 

“Alright, see you then.” 

 

I pull the receiver away from my ear when he hangs up and let my hand drop on my thigh. This isn’t going to be fun. This is going to be a fucking trip back in time that I probably can’t handle, but fuck it. Maybe it’ll distract me from the constant nagging in the back of my mind. 

 

“Babe, I’m leaving,” Sarah says, appearing in the doorframe, looking perfect, as per usual. I tell her just that and she blushes slightly, casting her gaze downwards in humility that she shouldn’t have. She’s gorgeous, she should flaunt it. I remember the first time we met, the way she made a white tank top and Converse look like they belonged in a fashion show. It’s ridiculous. I stand up and join her, pulling her in for a soft kiss. She whimpers a little, saying something about her freshly applied lipstick, but I laugh and hold her closer, her body fitting against mine in the way that I know so well. 

 

She pulls away soon, too soon, leaving one last kiss on my lips as she runs to the living room to collect her sunglasses and scarf. I follow her, taking my time. She hesitates once she’s at the front door, turning back to me. A grin spreads across her face and I cock an amused eyebrow at her as she runs to me and kisses me one last time. 

 

“I love you,” she whispers, and she’s gone before the feeling of her kiss fades from my lips. 

 

⁂

 

A pile of boxes on legs greets me as I open my front door. 

 

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I ordered anything,” I say as seriously as I can, leaning against the door. A muffled noise of protestation comes from behind the boxes, and I can’t help but snort.

 

“Let me in, asshole, I have an entire tour’s worth of shit in here.” 

 

“Fine.” I step away and Spencer staggers in, going to set the boxes down against the wall in the entrance. His hair’s still humid, and he’s wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt that reminds me of my dad.I pretend to pull my wallet out of my pocket and walk closer to him as he bends down to make sure the boxes don’t fall. “How much do I owe you?” 

 

He stands back straight and glares at me, dead serious. “All your success, Urie.” 

 

There’s a silence and we both erupt in laughter and he hugs me, familiar. My best friend, happy, with three day’s worth of stubble. 

 

We pull away and he gestures to the boxes. 

 

“What do you wanna start with?”

 

God, what should we start with? 


	5. Part-Time Lovers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cannot apologise for how long i took to update this. had a huge-ass writer's block, i guess, but i'm back now!! 
> 
> enjoy & don't hesitate to leave a comment!! :)

“It’ll be empty,” I say, climbing the few steps leading into the tour bus and looking around for anysigns of presence that’ll prove me wrong. There’s nothing but two abandoned cups on the coffee table, a pile of promotional flyers on the couch; it’s always empty at this time of the evening, everyone either out for a beer or getting laid in various places. Never this bus, though. This one’s sacred, by some unspoken agreement that all the guys have. I look back at Ryan, who’s casting glances left and right before following me inside, as if he’s terrified we’ll be found out. It’s cute how flustered he is. We won’t. No one needs to know.

 

We’re both standing in the lounge area and I look at him, already ridiculously turned on. It’s amazing how he manages to do that, by just standing there. It still happens during shows, even if I’ve learned to conceal it. I’ve become a master at not imagining his stage makeup smeared, his shallow breaths, or the way his pale skin feels under my fingertips. Electric. 

 

His hair’s humid from the shower he took after the show, and he stares back, a small smile on his lips now that he knows we’re not going to get caught. Not in here. 

 

It’s funny to think back at all those times I walked up to him onstage, daring to touch him and be near him in ways that I never would have off of it, pretending it’s all an act, that he and his body had no effect on me whatsoever. It’s funny, because I get him now. I get to kiss him and hear his moans, get to feel him inside me, his slender fingers knowing exactly which way to bend to make me squirm. 

 

And it feels unbelievable, too, because it all hung from a thread. From an untimely encounter as he came out of the shower, towel around his waist. From the sweatpants I was wearing that evening, from the unconcealable that took us from friends to part-time lovers. And now this is our everyday, quick fucks in dressing rooms when no one’s around, sucking him off in the back of the bus. And now we’re here, the shitty lounge lights casting shadows over his brown eyes. He smiles tentatively, like he’s still not sure I want him. I can’t believe he can’t see what he does to me. It’s so fucking obvious. 

 

I cross the distance between us and kiss him hard, my hands going to his face, holding him like that’ll anchor his taste in my mind, for the nights where jerking off is the only viable solution. It happens too often, and it’s a miracle that neither of us has been whisked away for an interview tonight. There are girls, too, and we both know they’d be willing to do anything to get laid with one of us, but none of them compare. None of them feel the same. 

 

“I missed you,” I breathe into his ear before moving to kiss his neck, letting my hand wander down to cup him and his breathing hitches, grabbing a fistful of my shirt. He smells like hotel shampoo, but I can’t work out which hotel it’s from. It doesn’t matter; we were probably there together. Now, I just need him. 

 

“I miss you, too,” he says in a low voice, and I feel his hands in my hair as I breathe in the scent of him again, mine going to work on his belt. I’m achingly hard and I know he is too, just by the way the words get caught in his throat. 

 

“Dude, look at this,” Spencer says suddenly, and I look up, the picture dropping from my hand to the floor of the living room. I scramble to pick it up and stick it back in the midst of all the other pictures on the table, to get his breathless smile away from me and try to keep out the memories that come running back. I sigh, running a hand over my face like that’ll erase what I just let myself remember. I fucked up, already. It’s been three pictures and I already fucked up, taken right back, back to our forbidden tour bus, back into his scent, his short breaths, his lips against my skin. Right back. Fuck.

 

I think about my phone on the kitchen counter just a couple of feet away, carefully left there because I don’t want to be tempted. It almost feels surreal that he’s here, in the pictures, and another version of him is on the other side of a string of numbers that I’ve been too fucking spineless to delete all those years ago. And now I pay the price, one that I’d never thought I would. I was over him. I’m over him. 

 

I force my eyes down to look at the dark, glossy picture that Spencer’s holding, swallowing down the lump that’s lodged itself in my throat. It’s a still of the documentary we filmed back in 2006, I think. The white and grey blurs dotting the photograph aren’t enough to figure out who’s on it, and I can’t remember the order in which we used to get off stage anyway. 

 

“Man, that was Colorado, right?” Spencer says, his brows furrowing before starting to wave the picture around as if that would help him identify the people on it. I try not to focus on it, to avoid having my brain try to work out if the darker areas are his stage makeup. 

 

So it was Colorado alright. Fillmore Auditorium, Denver. That, I remember. The altitude had gotten me ridiculously out of breath, and I’m still not sure how I managed to end the set without passing out in the middle. Incredible what determination can do against too little oxygen. 

 

On second thought, maybe having Ryan that close wasn’t great for the out-of-breath situation, either. I don’t remember the order in which we got off stage, but I remember him smiling in the changing room, pulling his barely sweat-stained shirt off. A smile that said something about having finally gotten away from the cameras and the crowd. A smile more intimate than any touch, any kiss. It felt like that specific smile existed only for me, and it tore me apart, right there, in a small changing room in a city just like any other. 

 

I glance back at the pile of photos in which I hid the polaroid as Spencer grabs another one from inside a box. I’m reaching out before I realise what I’m doing; my fingers find the thicker material easily, and I stuff the picture into my back pocket in one swift movement, like a guilty child stealing candy in the forbidden cupboard. Spencer looks up from whatever colourful snapshot of our past lives he was staring at. 

 

“What are you doing?” 

 

And now I’m the guilty child that’s been _caught_ stealing candy in the forbidden cupboard. 

 

Spencer knew about us, I think. There’s no way he didn’t, but it doesn’t nag at him like a stain that hasn’t ever been quite washed out. It doesn’t make him anxious to turn on his phone because he might get a text that he wouldn’t know how to answer. I look into his baby blue eyes and see the faint lines at the corners, proof of many smiles given to people who may not have deserved them. Spencer is the best person I’ve ever known, there’s no doubt in that. 

 

And maybe that’s why I don’t tell him about the worst thoughts I’ve had these days. 

 

“Just one I wanna keep,” I tell him, clasping my hands together and leaning forward, pretending to be interested in those other pictures. He snorts. 

 

“I brought all of these here for you to keep, you fucking idiot.” 

 

I know this. But this one, I’m _keeping_. Not putting it back in the box for Sarah to find for her scrapbook or for it to rot away in my basement instead of Spencer’s.

 

“Wait,” he says suddenly, putting down the picture he’s holding and narrowing his eyes at me after scanning the table briefly. Of course he fucking knew about that polaroid. “Was that the polaroid?” 

 

I don’t say anything to that. Silence is the best conveyor of messages like these, apparently. 

 

Spencer looks around as if we’re partners in crime before leaning in and looking at me again, a concerned look on his face. 

 

“Bren, you can’t keep doing this.” 

 

“What do you mean? I’m not—”

 

“You know exactly what this is, and it’s not a good idea. We’re not kids anymore.” 

 

It’s true. We aren’t. We’re grown ass men with wives and houses and stable jobs. I can’t keep clinging to a teenage love, even if the realisation of it kicked in much later. 

 

It’s just not two thousand and six anymore. 

 

Ryan and I aren’t what we used to be. Confidants. Best friends, with a side of passion. Regulars in each other’s minds. 

 

I wonder if he’d still whisper my name the same. 

 

But I don’t hand the photograph back, and Spencer doesn’t ask for it.

 

“Just don’t do anything stupid.” 

 

God, he shouldn’t trust me. I shouldn’t trust me. 

 

⁂

 

It’s not even a good picture. 

 

It’s blurry and someone probably spilled coffee on it, but the stain doesn’t cover his face or his smile. The red lighting makes it look like there was fire in the background. I wonder what he was thinking right then, if he was even trying to look good for the cameras like I tried and failed to do. He never fucking sweated on stage. If he was thinking of me or the harmonies he had to sing. 

 

I’m lying on Sarah and I’s bed, my phone on my chest. Spencer left about fifteen minutes ago, after having helped me stack all the boxes in a neat pile on the side of the living room. Gave me an apprehensive look as he walked out the door, like he knew I was going to do stupid shit anyway. 

 

They say it takes 66 days to develop a habit. It’s been three and texting him when I shouldn’t is already one. 

 

I pick my phone up with my other hand and take a picture of the polaroid, hitting send before I regret it. 

 

_[1:13pm] Brendon: found this today. you look like the lord of hell._


	6. restoftime

A loud thud startles me awake from the nap I didn’t realise I was taking. 

 

Fuck. What time is it? 

 

The polaroid slides off my chest as I scramble for my phone, an automatism that I can’t be bothered to correct, just like fidgeting with pens every time I come across one. Zack’s sworn to impale my hands on the very pen I use next time I do, and I think Kenny’s been hiding them from me since. Good old Kenny, always looking out for me. 

 

Sometimes I wish he’d been there when it all came crumbling down after Cape Town, when I was nothing but an unknowingly heartbroken kid expected to write more songs about love, to carry on. Hell, I didn’t know love. I didn’t know it _was_ love. And yet I wrote more than a few songs about it; wrapped up in pretty metaphors and imagery, sure, but it’s common knowledge that Ryan was always better at it than me anyway. I was never good at being anything other than straightforward in writing. Kenny would’ve helped with the bitterness, I know. Funny to think I didn’t know where that bitterness came from and blindly attributed it to being rejected. It doesn’t feel good to have half your members leave, even if it’s a mutual decision. But it wasn’t just about that, and I know it now. Only took me about ten fucking years. 

 

Pete did a good job, though. Sliding me lyrics from across the table on a late summer night, saying that I could use them. Dress them up and pretend they were mine, sing my soul into it. Angry, heartbroken lyrics not aimed at a boy with honey brown eyes and hair that gets wavy under the Seattle rain. Pete never admitted to anything, but those lines felt too real to be nothing but a story. Maybe he used to feel the same way I did and took pity on a kid that made the same mistakes as him. It was a good way to go about it. Neither of us would have to endure our own pasts. 

 

But it’s not two thousand and nine anymore, either. It’s 4:23pm on a Thursday, and I can’t help but notice the lack of messages from him as I speed-scroll through all the notifications I’ve missed. Didn’t like being called lord of hell, did he? 

 

I push myself up and make my way to the living room, which turns out to be still empty of Sarah. She hasn’t called, but then again it’s not like she owes that to me. I’m away all the time; I’m away too much. I wish I could be home more often, but the stage is something I can’t stay away from. That’s where I grew; that’s where I’ll stay. She knows that, and she doesn’t mind, but it doesn’t change the fact that our family life is cruelly lacking. I don’t know what I’ll do when we have kids, someday. _Someday_. 

 

I look at the side of the room where Spencer left the boxes in a pile. 

 

“Ah, fuck.” 

 

Surely enough, the top box crashed to the floor. That was probably what the thud was about; turns out the pile wasn’t so neat after all. I love Spencer, but he’s just horrible at stacking boxes. It’s a problem. He’s horrible at stacking anything, really. We should’ve called him the Stacker. Spencer “Sucky Stacker” Smith. 

 

I take a picture of the mess and send it to him, just to prove a point.

 

_[4:25pm] Brendon: [Picture attached]_

_[4:25pm] Brendon: i’m suing you and your company for bad service_

 

I slide my phone back into my pocket and crouch down to gather the pictures so I can put them back into the box. I don’t look at them. If I do, I’ll be here for another two hours, remembering things that are better left in the very back of my mind, things that I can’t forget but really don’t want to see spinning in front of my eyes right now. Not when I can’t have him again. Not when I have her. 

 

But something that’s gotta be fate or destiny catches my eye as I drop the pictures back into the box, in the form of a small, rectangular book. The cover is dark red and there’s no title, which is fairly unusual. I pick it up and flip to a random page. 

 

_October 27th, 2006_

 

_B and I climbed onto the forbidden bus tonight. Our first time._

 

_Stolen ladder, promises to a crew he’ll probably forget to keep. That’s ok. It was worth it. The autumnal sunset from up there, towering over Lee-on and all of its Frenchness. Reality settled in when our fingers intertwined under cheap woven wool. I could sleep there for the restoftime, feel my skin melt into the metallic carcass, let my bones become adornments. and that’d be enough._

 

I rip my eyes from the lines, from the handwriting I haven’t seen in years and yet that I recognised immediately. Fuck. This is— 

 

I flip further, making sure not to read the scribbled lines. There are dates on every page. This is his journal.

 

I put it down and sit back on the ground. I can’t process this. I can’t fucking— 

 

I didn’t know he kept a journal. I knew about his LiveJournal, but not about this. Not this, never this. He never spoke a word of this, of _B_. 

 

Of me. The me that lived between these pages, under his pen, tangled in his words. His B. 

 

I remember that night like it was yesterday when I think of it. The cold roof of the bus under us, the warm oranges and reds of a French sunset fading over the city. My arm around him and his head on my shoulder, silent but for the occasional group of people passing by. We didn’t get recognised by fans; no one was interested enough to look overhead. No one curious enough to see two boys sharing a blanket draped over their shoulders, irises dyed crimson by the dying sun. 

I kissed him, that evening, on that bus, like I had so many times before and like I would again, in our ill-fated time together. Only that time it wasn’t because I wanted _him_. It was because I wanted to feel his lips, wanted to let him know something that I couldn’t explain in words. I never was good with words. But it was there. We were there, together. In a city we wouldn’t play in together again.

 

I want to go through all those entries, to find out every single one of his thoughts as we carried on through Nothing Rhymes like soldiers marching to the front, want to know if his words betrayed the way he really felt about me. Or, rather, nineteen year old me. B. If he really was just sating his misguided passion. 

 

But fear grips me at the thought that he might’ve really been truthful. That my love was as unrequited as it was unrecognised, even if it was years ago. Maybe some part of me wants to know I can be loved by him. That I’m worthy of it. Maybe it’s the only validation I still need. 

 

God, he’s got me all kinds of fucked up. 

 

My phone alerts me of a message and my stomach flips as I reach for it. 

 

_[4:45pm] Spencer: dont be a little bitch and clean it up. if you need a babysitter i charge 1 grand an hour. love u_

 

I chuckle at the message and quickly type a snarky reply before dumping all the leftover pictures back in the box, placing it on top of the other two, neatly this time. I’ll look at them later, when Sarah asks me to be next to her as she makes her scrapbook.

 

Thank God I found the journal before she goes through the pictures; it’s not something I’d want to talk about. We’re honest with each other, but this is something that I can’t bear to think of. Not when I just started texting him again, like a needy teenager. Not when I just found a piece of his soul. I pick the journal up and it suddenly seems that the best place to store it is inside my bedside drawer, as if I don’t already make enough bad decisions at night. 

 

And so there it goes, but my guilt can’t fit in the drawer. My phone buzzes again, as if on cue. As if he knows. 

 

_[4:52pm]_ _Ry: what would that make you?_

 

A coward, I think. 

 

A coward and a guy who’s about to make another string of mistakes. 

 

But I don’t tell him that, of course. 


	7. Mindless Self-Indulgence (Or Reckless Abandon)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love this chapter very much, and I hope you do too!

“God, it’s been a while. It’s good to see you,” Pete says, pulling me in for a hug. I return the sentiment as I wrap my arms around him; he’s been on tour for a few weeks, I think, and I haven’t seen him for well over six months. He looks the same apart from the longer hair, with maybe a few more lines at the corners of his eyes. None of us are getting any younger, and it’s daunting to think that he’s already nearing forty. But it’s still Pete, the guy who changed many lives forever, including ours. Pete, wearing a pair of shoes that I don’t want to look at twice. Jesus, that man’s lucky he’s talented. Those shoes are unforgivable. 

 

“I heard about the new baby, man, that’s awesome,” I tell him as I pull away. It was odd and a little hurtful to see an announcement like that on Instagram instead of being messaged about it, but we’re all busy these days. If he had to message every single person he knew, the baby would’ve been born long before he was done. “Congratulations.”

 

He flashes me one of his typically bright smiles as a thank-you as he unzips his jacket.“When are we gonna get news from you and Sarah, huh?” 

 

I chuckle and shake my head. “Nah, not for a while. We’re still figuring things out.” 

 

Pete puts his jacket on the back of one of the chairs and nods, as if he understands. I don’t know if he does, considering he had his first kid before age 30. Sarah and I have talked about it, and we both came to the conclusion that it’s still too early. We’re enjoying our life of two. Two, and the newly-gained knowledge that I can’t shake. But now’s not the time. 

 

Spencer arrives soon after and he and Pete hug as well, patting each other’s backs like they always do. Those two see each other much more often than they used to, now that Spencer’s working at the label. He told me about it months ago, and I can tell that he’s happy doing it, much happier than his last years with Panic. It was bad, and he had to get out. 

 

We’re both aware that fans want him to come back, but we’ve already had that talk. We’re both good where we are right now. Spencer doesn’t want the spotlight. 

 

I sit down at the table that’s reserved for us and absent-mindedly poke at the little golden sign that says so. _Reserved_. 

 

Huh. I know someone like that. 

 

The other two sit down too before I can let my brain start its uncalled for train of thought that it seems to be so willing to board these days. 

 

We order our drinks just like we used to ten years ago, only now no one’s about to try to mix Redbull with beer. We’re too mature for that now. 

 

Soon enough, the waitress walks up to us and places our drinks on the table. She’s young, probably a student with a part time job, and her metallic name tag says _Giselle_. Not from around here, then. 

 

“Thanks,” Pete says, giving her a small smile, and Spencer nods too, but she sticks around for a few seconds longer than necessary. I shoot her an inquisitive look, even if I already know what this is. Her cheeks are too flushed for it to be something work-related. 

 

“I’m sorry— You’re Pete, right? Pete Wentz?” She stutters, and I can’t help but smile even if this happens so often I can almost hear the upcoming conversation in my head, with her heavy Australian accent as a bonus. She turns her gaze to Spencer and I, and an incredulous grin spreads on her face.“And— Brendon and Spencer, right? Oh my god, I love your music so much. I can’t believe this is happening.” 

 

Pete smiles wider, like he does every time he gets recognised. It still makes him so happy, and it’s nice to see. “That’d be us! Thanks for bringing our drinks, Giselle.” Nice to know I’m not the only one noticing name tags. 

 

Giselle’s grin widens at the sound of her name and holds the now-empty tray against her chest, like she’s trying to stop herself from asking us for a picture or an autograph. Yeah, that wouldn’t be professional. 

 

“I just wanted to thank you for the music you’re making— and, uh, made,” she adds, looking at Spencer who smiles warmly at her. They’re always nervous and stumbling over their words around us. Always scared of offending us. Sometimes it’s cute, sometimes it’s annoying. Luckily, it’s leaning towards the former this time. She takes a deep breath. “Anyway, enjoy your drinks and let me know if I can do anything else for you! I’ll come back and take your order soon,” she concludes before scurrying away, still pressing the tray to her chest. Spencer chuckles and takes a sip of his Coke. 

 

“We should leave something for her,” he says, putting his glass down and grabbing a napkin. “One of you got a pen or something?” 

 

“Yeah, hold on,” Pete says, reaching for what must be one of the inner pockets of his jacket. God, he’s such a fucking dad already. Maybe he even has diapers in those pockets of his. 

 

He does find a pen, though, and we sign the napkin to leave for her when we’re done. ‘Cause we’re nice like that. 

 

Pete puts the pen back in his pocket and looks at me from over his beer. “You been recording lately? Doing some new stuff?” 

 

I nod, looking down at my own drink. “Yeah, there’s some shit that’s just waiting to be released. Hopefully soon, but I really don’t know when it’s gonna be.” I shrug. “Depends on the label, I guess.” 

 

“Remember that time you refused to record unless you were wearing that Belle costume?” Spencer chimes in, and I instantly picture that yellow monstrosity again. Why that dress even existed for someone my size is beyond me. Not that my size is particularly out of the ordinary, but still. A monstrosity, with ruffles on the sleeves and at least three layers of underskirts. They were scratchy as hell. 

 

“I did not refuse—”

 

Spencer snorts. “Oh yeah, sure you didn’t. ‘I’m not recording this in anything other than this dress!’” He whines in a tone that definitely does not sound like me from ten years ago before taking another sip of Coke. “Pretty sure you screamed half of the chorus when we took it off you.”

 

“It was giving me _creative power_ , okay? You wouldn’t understand that, you’re not a singer. And I never would’ve screamed any chorus, that’s ridiculous.” 

 

“The entire studio could hear you, Brendon. The receptionist came in asking if we were murdering someone.” 

 

“There’s no way—”

 

Spencer lifts his eyebrows. “She was _really_ concerned.” 

 

I huff and reach for my phone as Pete stifles a laugh across from me. “I think we need a third opinion,” I say, unlocking the phone and opening the _Messages_ app. Of course I’m going to text him. But only because he was there; that’s the only reason. 

 

“Hey, am I invisible or something?” Pete protests. “I can be a third opinion for that Belle dress situation.” 

 

Spencer and I look at him at the same time. “You weren’t there, Pete.” 

 

“Sure I was! I saw you guys recording most of _Lying Is The Best Thing—_ Oh, double death glare. Okay, okay. I’ll let you idiots get your third opinion that is not mine and thus not worth a dime.”

 

He sits back in his chair and sips his beer absent-mindedly, looking outside through the windows. I know he doesn’t actually mind, so I look back down at my phone and quickly type out and send my message. 

 

_[12:45pm] Brendon: for no reason in particular, do you remember the belle dress incident?_

 

Spencer nudges me. “Hey, texting Sarah’s cheating! She wasn’t even there!” 

 

I grin, going along with his assumption. It’s better if he doesn’t know I’m texting him. “Which makes her even more likely to side with me.” 

 

My phone chimes and we both look down at it, Ryan’s name unmistakably displayed on the screen. Fuck. 

 

Well, there’s no getting out of this one. 

 

_[12:46pm] Ry: sure i do. it was the highlight of my career. that wig was majestic._

 

Spencer stares at me with his most accusatory look and I swallow the guilt back down. There’s no point in pretending, but now’s not the time for explanations. Not here, not in front of Pete. 

 

“I’ll explain later,” I tell him in a low voice, already sending Ryan my answer as Spencer nods slightly. Pete raises an eyebrow at us but says nothing, clearly still in his offended act. He’ll probably ask Spencer questions later, though. Here’s to hoping he still knows how to lie.

 

_[12:48pm] Brendon: ok so did i or did i not scream the chorus to whatever song we were recording at the time, spencer wants to know. he says hi btw_

 

Spencer’s turned back to Pete and is telling him triumphantly that a wig was also involved. I can’t believe we forgot about the wig: it was a cheap, tangled thing that we kept passing around, like some kind of matted trophy we all needed to wear for a couple of hours. Come to think of it, it’s surprising none of us got lice from it; we never knew where it came from. It just appeared in the tour bus one day and no one really questioned it. Granted, we didn’t question much apart from strangers in our beds in the morning— actually, not even that. We didn’t question anything back then. Maybe that’s why I never realised everything I read in his fucking journal. My phone buzzes again. 

 

_[12:51pm] Ry: are you kidding me i still hear those screams at night_

_[12:51pm] Ry: pretty sure the assistant came in and asked if everything was ok_

_[12:52pm] Ry: (it wasnt ok)_

_[12:52pm] Ry: hey spence_

 

I let out something that’s halfway between a snort and a sigh and place my phone on the table for Spencer to see. 

 

“Guess you were right, then.” 

 

He leans in, eyes scanning the messages before looking back up at me, clearly unsure whether he should be mad or victorious. He seems to settle for the latter, keeping the former for the future conversation I’m not looking forward to. God, I fucked up. 

 

“See? I’m not the only one you traumatised,” he says, picking up the menu from the table. Pete’s already finished his beer and is now also going through the menu to decide what his lunch is going to be. I grab my phone again, thinking of what to answer. I know I don’t need to. I know it’s not something I should be doing, but I think of his journal again and my heart tightens in my chest. At worst, he’ll take it lightly. At best— Fuck, I don’t know what I’d do. It’d be easy to say I have nothing to lose, but that’s untrue. I have everything to lose. 

 

_[12:55pm] Brendon: you must really miss me huh_

 

But I hit _Send_ once more and shove the phone back into my pocket while trying to push every thought of him out of my head. Giselle comes back soon enough and takes our orders, blinking in disbelief behind her glasses when Spencer tells her she can have the napkin. We talk our way through lunch, about work and so many other things, things more or less relevant to our own lives. Pete’s kid, Spencer’s work at DCD2. My songwriting. 

 

I don’t check my phone until I’m back alone in my own car because of the guilt gnawing at me. There’s one text from Sarah asking me when I’ll be home. And, underneath that, two goddamn fucking words that might as well have stabbed me in the gut. 

 

_[1:22pm] Ry: sometimes, yeah._

 

 


	8. Once Stood In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i could tell you how much the new album fucked me up, but i honestly don't have the words to do that, so here's a new chapter instead.

At thirty, I’m still not self-aware enough to be entirely conscious of the fact that I exist in people’s heads even when they’re not around for a while. Now, of course there’s the whole public-figure thing, the fans, the shows, the albums and the music, but that’s not the same. It’s not the same as knowing that he’s out there, missing me. Thinking about me.

 

I can picture him so clearly, so easily, like time hasn’t passed at all, lying in his bed in the middle of the night, staring at the ceiling and wishing it was still the bottom of someone else’s bunk. Because it’d mean we’re still in a tour bus, together, that he could just pull his little curtain back and see me across from him. Because it’d mean we haven’t fallen apart yet.

 

And it’s even easier to reach into the bedside drawer that now holds all his teenage secrets, to pull out the little notebook that I haven’t had the chance to read more of yet. I haven’t answered him, either, because I don’t know what to say to his two-worded confession, two words that are more than I’ve had in years. Just because I asked. 

 

The pages of the notebook feel strange under my fingers, the paper roughened by time and ink. I let my eyes run over the black letters without allowing them to become words and make sense, look at the way his o’s are never quite closed, the way the g’s and y’s hang low and the way the s’s are always a little further away from the word they belong to, like they’ll scurry off the page at the first occasion they get. 

 

But I get tired of focusing on the detail and relax into the bigger picture. The words, the sentences. I let myself read even if I know perfectly that no good can come out of this. It’s either disappointment and delayed heartbreak, like a time-bomb that took twelve years to explode, or regret and guilt. None of those combinations are particularly attractive. 

 

_december 11th, 2006_

 

_tomorrow’s our last show together for a couple of months. don’t know if i’ll see brendon before next tour and i’m not good at goodbyes despite what you’d think._

 

_there’s too much i can’t say to you, so here it is in my shitty handwriting, ‘cause i have to get it out somehow or i’m sure i’ll explode. paint the insides of the tour bus with my own. a sickening dark red._

 

_i know we can’t be more than this. i know, i’m not an idiot in every way. i know it’s going to stay trembling breaths and urgent hands beneath thin covers and behind even thinner walls. and i know you’re an angel i can’t afford to taint with something as stupid and inconsequential as love. four letters summing up chemicals in our brains. mine, at least._

 

_it’s nice to lay silently together, like we’re up in space within the planets and oxygen is scarce enough for us to hold our breaths, and you’re a star that’ll never burn out. i hope you know that. i look at you and see more than silver. i see gold, i see dust, i see everything you have yet to become. and with a little luck, i’ll be by your side to rediscover it with you._

 

I rip my eyes from the pages and stare straight ahead, at the white wall on the other side of the room, trying to conjure up the memories of those days, try to imagine him again, writing these words, disappearing God-knows-where after soundcheck to put these unspoken thoughts on paper. 

 

And, yeah, maybe there’s truth in the paragraphs I’ve just read that I don’t want to acknowledge yet, because remorse isn’t someone I want to sleep with at night. She’s not even someone I want to be around. But she’s here, peering over my shoulder. Whispering in my ear, sending ice shards through my veins.

 

I try to shake the feeling off as I put the notebook back where it now belongs and push myself off of the bed, going to open the doors of the old wooden wardrobe that lines one of the walls of the bedroom. The shirts inside are all hung up neatly, the ones at the bottom folded and immaculately placed on top of one another. I start going through them carefully, trying to spot the washed out blue fabric I’m looking for, resolute in finding it now. Because somehow, it feels as though it can soothe the remorse. 

 

But it’s not here. I freeze with a shirt in my hand because it suddenly feels stupid that I even thought it would be, after so much moving around and so much packing. I know for a fact that there are unopened boxes in the basement, because we’re just horrible procrastinators. Thank God I’m not the only one managing my own music; albums would never be out if it was all up to me. There’s always a new instrumental track to add here, more harmonies to find there; it’s never good enough, and satisfaction isn’t something I allow myself to be familiar with. I remember recording Mad As Rabbits, remember the extra background vocals Ryan recorded for it. To this day, it’s one of the best ones I’ve ever worked on, the closest shot at satisfaction I let myself have. And yet, it’s still unthinkable to play it onstage without him. Or Jon, for that matter. It doesn’t feel anywhere near right. 

 

Our basement’s small, mostly because it wasn’t really important in our quest for a house; everything we own is where we can see it, apart from those few boxes of clothes that sit there, gathering dust. The boxes of pictures up in the living room are probably going to end up here eventually, but Sarah still has to go through them. 

 

The first box I look through is a disappointment. A brown checkered shirt I used to love but spilled some kind of unidentified liquid on, resulting in an indelible stain that exiled it to the basement. A pair of red shorts with _Are You Nasty?_ on the ass, and I can’t help but chuckle at the thought that those pictures of me wearing them are still out there, somewhere. That was a great marketing move. 

 

The second box isn’t any better, but the third— I spot it as soon as I flip the cardboard flaps open, the once deep blue fabric that’s been washed so many times it’s now barely a shade darker than a clear afternoon sky in LA. I reach down for it, feel the softened cloth against my fingers before holding it up in front of me. It’d probably still fit, but the orange insignia is so faded that I can barely make the letters out anymore, and it’s only a proof of how much time has passed since he gave me that shirt, mostly because he hated it. There were probably too many bad memories attached to it, the high school he never managed to like, the father he couldn’t bear to be around. He hated the shirt. I didn’t. 

 

I kept that shirt for years, wearing it everytime we were away from each other, everytime I thought I needed him for his body and his mouth; but it wasn’t just that, was it? It was his smell, clinging to the fabric, and the idea of being so close to him despite being far away. I bring the shirt up to my face and breathe it in, but there’s nothing there anymore. Nothing that says this piece of clothing ever belonged to someone other than me, was ever hung up in someone else’s closet. I feel a pang of deception even if it’s stopped smelling like him years ago, as though I expected it to remain this untouchable relic. But none of us are that godly. 

 

There’s an ugly burn at the bottom of the shirt, and it’s almost painful to remember why it’s there. No matter how much we’d discussed Ryan and Jon leaving, it was never something I wanted. Back then, I thought we had agreed to keep going for years, ’til we were but four old guys onstage, Jaggers in our own rights, making music for whoever would listen to us. Turns out life doesn’t work that way, and I should’ve known. It’s not a tranquil stream all the way to death. 

It felt like I’d done everything wrong, like I was the sole reason they were leaving. It was one joint to calm my anger, and this shirt on my back that reminded me of him too much. Burning a hole into it was easy, almost too easy. Missing him was one of the worst parts of it all; knowing I’d never be in his arms again, and I was right. I haven’t been there since. 

 

I can’t stop thinking about that one sentence I read in his journal. _Four letters summing up chemicals in our brains. Mine, at least_. 

 

It’s difficult to make sense of the words when they mean something I’m not sure I want to understand. Because if he loved me, it only makes it all worse; he knew he did. It makes all the pain pointless, it leaves so many questions without answers. 

 

Why didn’t he just tell me? Was it because of the medication, because he felt like I couldn’t fucking handle it? 

 

I pull off the shirt I’m wearing in one swift move and slip into the Bishop Gorman shirt, as if that’ll help me find the answers to the interrogations that are burning in my brain. But I can’t text him, can I? Not after that. 

 

I climb up the stairs and make a beeline to the kitchen, to the little cupboard where we keep the spirits. I don’t drink less than I used to, but definitely more responsibly. Crazy what age and maturity will do to you. I grab the bottle of Jack Daniel’s and pour myself half a glass, because I deserve it. There’s too much going on in my head and I don’t like that. Let’s try not to border a panic attack or some shit. 

 

I take a sip and go sit down at the piano, Penny on my heels. She’s always good to have around. I play a few random chords, not really trying to construct a melody but humming one anyway. Maybe I can make this into something. All of this nostalgia and reminiscence, the memories of being seventeen and walking into the basement where they played, where I was supposed to be but a part-time guitarist. Someone undeniably replaceable, someone who wasn’t supposed to stick around. 

 

I liked Ryan immediately. The way he held himself, like a teenager that’s grown up too fast, shoulders slouched as though he was trying to look shorter than he was. The long hair, the button nose beneath a pair of light brown eyes that I definitely couldn’t see through. I couldn’t figure him out, but I didn’t have to, back then. I just had to play my part and then fuck off until they needed me again. And they did; so much so that I stayed, that we became who we became. Drinking in the middle of the night, laughing at each other’s nonsensical jokes, being in it just for the music, knowing nothing about the industry. Just the passion, the innocence. The first kisses, the burn in my cheeks. The temporary boldness lent by the substances, the adrenaline rush from performing in front of strangers. Youth, carelessness, cruising through the nights like we would live forever. And even though I love my life now, even if I have nothing to complain about, I know that being seventeen was one of the high points of my life.

 

They were the best of times. 


	9. Fifth Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's.. been a while, but here you go. second-to-last chapter, my friends! I'm really about to finally finish a fic, huh. i hope you enjoy this one!

It’s funny how familiar I’m getting with guilt these days, and what’s even more ironic is that while the first time was caused by texting him, this time it’s because I’m not texting him at all. I know how it should be. I know I should be pushing it to the very back of my mind and focusing on finishing the new album, getting everything recorded and mastered and sending various tracks to my producers, but this is all I can think of. It eats me up. Scorching at times, paralysing at others, some shapeshifter that’s easy to pinpoint but impossible to get rid of. 

 

_sometimes, yeah._

 

I blamed him, at first. For answering with more honesty than I knew what to do with, a candid response to an offhand text I sent during a lunch with friends. It’s not fair that he gets to be straightforward and say things like these, so detached, as though his words have no weight. As a lyricist and a poet, he should know better, know the importance of words and the layers upon layers of meaning behind them. Back when I knew him, he was aware. I’d like to think he still is, but going into the implications of that are too daunting. If he’s aware, then he’s playing with me.

 

 

Blaming him was easier than facing the truth - that I had taken his journal in my hands and flipped through the pages. It was his twenty year old mind in the form of lines and lines of handwriting that I held beneath my fingers, and I’d been the intruder. I don’t know what I’d do if someone read through my mind back then, seeing all the terrible thoughts I had onstage, the destructive impulses that grabbed me during late hours after one too many glasses. 

 

I sit at the desk in my studio, but my hands are abnormally idle, the computer screen dark in front of me. The neon words over the desk are off, because I can’t deal with their eye-watering brightness tonight. My phone’s at the other end of the table, the screen off, too. I know I should tell him. 

 

I can’t bring myself to tell him. 

 

How do you tell someone you just went through their most intimate thoughts? That you’ve explored every nook and cranny of their mind, even if it was over a decade ago? 

 

I have to, somehow. 

 

I stretch my arm to pick up my phone and unlock it, ignoring the knot in my chest as I pull up the Messages app, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard, unsure of how to word it, because I still don’t know. And, despite trying ridiculously hard not to glance to the previous, unfinished conversation, I do, feeling my guts twist. God, that was stupid. 

 

_[9:43pm] Brendon: dude, i found a journal in the nothing rhymes box spence brought me. yours? cant think of someone else it could belong to_

 

Hoping my lie sounds convincing enough is an art I haven’t practiced in years, and yet that’s exactly what I do. Look for any missteps in the short sentence I sent, any fissure he may crack open and expose my underlying hypocrisy with. There are too many, so I stop before my heart starts beating out of my chest and go sit down at the keyboard instead, pressing down on the power button. 

 

Running my hands on the cool keys somehow does wonders for the anxiety, even if I know I deserve every bit of discomfort I put myself in. I play a melody absent-mindedly, something that sounds vaguely like really bad Third Eye Blind, but it gives me something to focus on, even if it’s terrible. Can’t be as bad as imagining him beginning to suspect that I’ve utterly and completely violated his privacy. 

 

My phone buzzes. I remember that he used to love Third Eye Blind. 

 

_[9:47pm] Ry: what’s it look like?_

 

Right. Of course I should’ve sent a picture. I tap on the little camera and get up from behind the synth, making my way outside of the studio because God knows I can’t keep that journal lying around. Walking into the bedroom, my eyes immediately focus on the bedside table, as though I can see through it and detect the little book lying in there. 

 

I pull it out of the drawer and sit down on the floor, sending it out after I take the picture. I watch the little blue bar as it loads, then disappears. I’m sending it to him for confirmation that I don’t need. I pick at my nails as I sit on the bedroom floor, my back against the bed frame and the journal lying next to me, anxiously waiting for an answer that finally, finally comes. 

 

_[10:02pm] Ry: wow shit I thought I lost that in europe_

 

_[10:03pm] Brendon: haha well someone probably salvaged it_

 

_[10:05pm] Brendon: life has its tricks_

 

_[10:07pm] Ry: sure it does. jon probably hid it somewhere and then forgot about it_

 

_[10:08pm] Ry: you heard from him?_

 

_[10:09pm] Brendon: not really. been busy_

 

Truth is, there’s some indelible resentment that sticks around Jon, mostly because it felt like he was the one who convinced Ryan to leave, and I can’t forgive that. Yes, it was mutual decision. Doesn’t mean I had to be okay with it. 

 

Jon’s talented, I’ll give him that; Pretty. Odd. wouldn’t have been the same without him. I remember when I heard that he and Ryan had started writing songs together, just the two of them, and the awful wave of jealousy that washed over me then. I’ve always been too possessive of what we had, the easy complicity sparking between Ryan and I, the special lyricist-vocalist bond we had, just like Patrick and Pete still do. 

 

The only difference between us was that Patrick and Pete work well together, both professionally and emotionally, a symbiotic relationship if I’ve ever seen one. Sure, they’ve yelled at each other before, probably hated each other a little, but Ryan— Ryan had too much of an influence on me. Singing his words made me place him on a pedestal, and I was the lucky one that had a one way ticket into his mind. And what a mind… 

 

My phone buzzes again, as though to protect me from delving too deep into that thought.   

 

_[10:11pm] Ry: ah_

 

He doesn’t ask me what I’m busying myself with, but then again he’s probably guessed. I don’t know if he makes the conscious effort to avoid everything Panic related, after everything his association with the band’s put him through. I push away the thought of that awful impersonation thing that went on for months without either of us knowing, and suddenly feel like I owe him something. 

 

_[10:13pm] Brendon: do you want it back?_

 

_[10:13pm] Brendon: the jounral i mean_

 

_[10:14pm] Brendon: journal_

 

I don’t really know why I felt the need to specify that it was about the journal. What else can I give back to him? Not the band, not whatever we had. I don’t have much to offer anymore because our expiry date was over a decade ago, back when he said he didn’t want to do this anymore. Not with me. 

 

I stare at my phone, suddenly realising that if he says he does want the journal back, I might see him again. Not just fleetingly like during those parties, but actually get to look him in the eye and hand him the notebook, perhaps even chat a little. Hear his voice and know how he is, see his smile. Maybe he’ll laugh and the creases by his eyes I used to love so much will still be there. Maybe I’ll be able to fix everything. 

 

But maybe he’ll tell me to burn it instead, to get rid of it one way or another because he doesn’t want to be reminded of everything he dared put on paper back then, and I guess I understand. If I could take back the realisation that I was in love, that I would’ve given up so much for him back then, I would. It’s so much easier when it’s professional, when we’re just friends. 

 

I look around me as though to tell my mind to focus on something other than the possibility of being near him again, stare at the carpet and the dust already gathering in the corners of the room even if we get it cleaned twice a week. We shouldn’t open the window that often. The city is filthy despite the refreshing sea breeze. 

 

“Babe, are you alright?” 

 

Sarah’s voice is like someone dumped a cold bucket of water over my head. Fuck. I peer towards the door and try to figure out whether I really did just walk past her in the living room without noticing. 

 

“I’m fine, don’t worry,” I call out, catching sight of the little notebook on the floor right by me. Shit. I grab it and slide it under the bed instead of just dumping it back into the drawer as Sarah appears in the doorframe. 

 

“Are you sure?” She crosses her arms and leans against the wall, perfect eyebrows furrowed in concern. “You just, like, ran through the living room.”

 

I ignore the two short vibrations my phone does in my hand as I tell her that I’m really fine, that it was just sudden inspiration. 

 

“For what, the bedroom floor?” She smirks, amused, and I thank the heavens that she doesn’t tell me I’ve been acting weird for the past few days, even if I know I have. Guess I’ve been weirder before. 

 

I chuckle as she crosses the distance between us and straddles me, our mouths just an inch apart. I lean in and kiss her slowly, discarding my phone on the floor next to us. She smiles against my lips, and I breathe her in, the scent of her shampoo mixed with that sweet smell I’ve never picked up on anyone else but her, intoxicating. I pull back for a second to look at her, my thumb softly tracing her cheek. This is the woman I married, this is the woman I’m in love with. Her hair, her smile, her body. Her eyes, her big, beautiful eyes I have inked on my skin forever. 

 

“I love you,” she whispers before kissing me again, both a statement and a promise at once, and my heart fills with gratitude to have her in my life, because God knows I don’t deserve her. 

 

“I love you,” I repeat, holding her close, burying my face in her neck, feeling her warm body against mine. “I love you so fucking much.” 

 

 

⁂

 

_[10:16pm] Ry: yeah. 5th st, tomorrow 5:30pm?_

 

Fuck. 

 

I glance at Sarah’s bare form, already asleep next to me, and then back at the screen. Fifth Street is where he and I used to go on our off nights, a speakeasy called the Overpass. It was window-less, letting us tap into the secrecy and privacy of consuming alcohol in the 20s, only our goal was to make sure no one we knew could recognise us. 

 

We knew about the Overpass long before we were even allowed in because Pete had heard of it, and anything good enough for Pete was good enough for us. Ryan was always intrigued by its premises, dragging me in as soon as we both were twenty-one. Jon was invited too, but declined to come, something in my stare probably telling him he’d be heavily third-wheeling if he did. Besides, Spencer wasn’t of age yet. 

 

I still vaguely remember stepping through its doors for the first time, the red and black checkered floors contrasting oddly with the dimmed lights and ox skull above the bar. He didn’t hesitate, that night, and it made me wonder how many times he’d been here before, and if he’d ever brought company. Maybe I was just another one of his conquests, I thought, but then Ryan was not the type. He was too starry-eyed to keep tabs on multiple people at once. 

 

I followed him into one of the few booths that lined the small room, deciding not to sit across from him but right by his side instead, because I’d stayed away long enough already. He’d tasted of cigarettes and whiskey that night. I remember. We’d started calling it 5th Street instead of the Overpass, because that way it felt even more secret. Like it was something only we shared, only we knew of. 

 

I take a deep breath and type out my message, even though I have no idea whether I can take seeing that place again. I haven’t been there in years, and I’ve never been there without him. 

 

Funny thing is, I won’t be there without him this time either, only I won’t get to have him like that, like we used to. Won’t let my hands wander near his thighs or my lips brush the side of his face, graze his mouth. We’re not those kids anymore, even if I loved him. Even if he loved me back. 

 

I think of the notebook, still discarded under the bed, and wonder if he ever did mention 5th Street in there. He must remember it as fondly as I do, or he wouldn’t suggest meeting there. The filthy bathroom where he slammed me against the wall and kissed me ferociously, hands on either side of my face. The darkened back room, so small and crowded that even the walls were glistening with sweat when music was on. We didn’t mind. Every corner, every wall, every booth of that place has our kisses and caresses engraved in them, marked like an old tree in which lovers would carve their names. But we weren’t lovers. 

 

I cast my eyes down to the phone again. 

 

_[11:45pm] Brendon: 5:30 is too early. make it 10._


	10. The Sweetest Part

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is it, you guys. if you made it all the way here, I want to thank you for coming on this journey with me, for all your comments and kudos and everything else. thank you, because you kept me going. ngl, I'm a little emotional because this is the first time I'm finishing a fic on which I've worked for such a long time. 
> 
> anyway, rant over. I hope you enjoy this chapter. I hope you'll love it as much as I loved writing it.

I swear I’m fine until the clock strikes nine o’clock. After that, it’s just apprehension, worse than that first time we performed in front of Pete, worse than sweaty palms and the gut-wrenching fear that I just might fuck up and destroy my shot at music. Because forgetting lyrics, singing off key or screwing up a chord is something I can be conscious of. Something I have control over. Yeah, I forgot the second verse. Sorry. Can we still get a record deal? I promise I’ll do better next time. 

 

But this, this I have no way of knowing how it’ll turn out until the very last second, until we say goodbye or until he decides I’m not worth his time anymore. There are no do-overs. This _is_ the do-over. This is my second chance, and that’s paralysing. No missteps allowed. 

 

Stumbling upon him months after we parted ways, or bumping into him at a party — that was almost easy to do, just a jolt of adrenaline instantly sent through my veins, and that I can deal with. To have it planned like this almost feels like those “you’ll die at dawn” lines thrown around bad westerns by villains wearing eye patches. A lens flare shot revealing the gallows. Collective gasps. 

 

But there are no gallows in this scenario, and the street is desperately empty when I pull up to 305E 5th Street, apart from the small group of three guys huddled together with their hoods up, probably up to something not exactly legal. I ignore them, though. Getting into trouble wouldn’t be worth it, especially tonight. 

 

I scan the surrounding buildings, desperately trying to find the tiny, once-familiar entrance in the orange glow of the streetlight. There are too many shadows in this neighbourhood, too many mirages that I mistake for the door we used to rush through, giggling like teenagers. It’s true that I never did get a good look at it, either too drunk or too enraptured by him to care. I regret that carelessness a little now, as I look down at my phone, sitting in my darkened car. I don’t fucking know where I’m supposed to go. 

 

Well, I say I regret it, but I don’t. I wouldn’t take back that carelessness for anything in the world. Being able to laugh, drink, run, kiss, all without having to worry what the consequences were gonna be? It’s a luxury I can’t really afford anymore. 

 

I frown at the bright screen as I turn my phone on, but there’s no message from him, and the display tells me it’s 10:07. He’s still always late; old habits die hard. Or maybe he’s already inside. Maybe I should text him to be sure. 

 

God, no, he’d think I’m an overeager idiot, and even though that’s exactly what I am, I’d prefer not to call myself that. I look over at the journal lying on the passenger seat and wonder if I should’ve gift-wrapped it. Or put it in a plastic bag. Or at least put a ribbon around it. Fuck, I'm stupid. This isn’t a gift. This is returning something that doesn’t belong to me, that never belonged to me. People don’t wrap up books when they return them to the library, do they? 

 

A knock on the passenger window startles me out of my inner gift debate and I turn towards it, my eyes wide. It doesn’t take me long to figure out who it is, even if I can barely see his face. 

 

It’s him. 

 

He’s here. 

 

Ryan’s here. 

 

My heart feels like it needs to be kickstarted as I lean over to open the passenger door and let him in, moving the journal to the dashboard so he doesn’t sit on it. He gets into the seat and I stare at my hands, because somehow looking at him feels blasphemous. Or overeager. Or both. 

 

“Hey,” he says, and I tear my eyes from my hands to look up at him, almost like I’d forgotten he was here. It’s too dark, too dark in here. 

 

“Hey,” I say. “I couldn’t find the entrance to the bar, so I figured I’d wait out here. I thought about texting you, but—” 

 

“Oh, it’s closed,” he says, and for a second I feel stupid for not knowing that. It’s closed. _Obviously_. “It shut down years ago.”

 

“Really?” 

 

He nods, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah, it was— 2014, I think?” He leans forward and for a second I think he’s already spotted the journal, but his hand shoots upwards instead. “You got any lights in this car?” 

 

Lights. Right.

 

I raise my hand, finding the switch overhead. I can’t help but notice that he’s drawn his hand back as soon as I extended mine, as though he’s afraid we’ll touch. Warm yellow light floods the car, making me hyper self-aware. He can see me. Does he think I’ve changed? Do I look older? 

 

I can see him, too. I let my eyes travel up to his face and look at him, _really_ look at him for the first time in at least eight years. The catch is, he’s just as beautiful as I remember, maybe even more now that I know what it’s like to be away from him for so long, now that I can appreciate every little thing that makes him, him. 

 

His hair is neatly cut, a few longer strands sticking out on one side. I can imagine the motion of his hand as he runs it through his hair, tinted with the familiar casualness of most of his movements. He’s wearing a black shirt under his leather jacket, a sword-shaped earring dangling from his left lobe. Light stubble covers his chin, and I wouldn’t have noticed it in the dim light of the car if I didn’t know exactly how he looks clean shaven. There’s something— something blessed about being able to sit here and look at him, stop time for a few moments to take him in again. 

 

I missed him, I realise, and maybe that’s what those moments of nagging emptiness were. I’ve always dismissed them as passing moods or temporary lack of inspiration, but now it feels like that feeling never existed at all, because he’s here. He’s here, sitting next to me right by a place where we wrote so many chapters of our story. He said he misses me sometimes in that confession of his, but me, I might’ve missed him all this time without even knowing it. 

 

“So you knew it was closed when you said to meet up here?” I say, and he rubs his neck, something I know he does when he’s not sure how to answer a question. I’ve seen it one too many times during interviews. 

 

If he knew it was closed, why suggest this place? 

 

“I did, yeah. I guess I thought it was a good place to meet up. Memories, you know.” He chuckles awkwardly; doesn’t look at me. Yeah, memories. Flashes of those assail me and I blink them away. The kisses, the whimpers, the moans and the febrile hands. The murmured promises, the breathless vows. I wonder if he still remembers them, too. 

 

“We got a bunch of those, don’t we?” 

 

Oh, God. If I knew I was going to say stupid shit like this, I would’ve had a couple of shots before I came. 

 

A smile forms on his lips and eases my mind. “We do, yeah. Like that one time you dared me to sneak into Central Park at two in the morning.” 

 

I chuckle. Of course I remember that. Jon and Spencer were sound asleep if not passed out, but Ryan and I had a ridiculous amount of energy and alcohol in us. “I snuck in with you, though, so it wasn’t really a dare in the end.” I let my eyes wander onto the empty street and the ugly green-on-white deli sign hanging over a darkened window. The shady guys are gone. “Didn’t we get caught?” 

 

Ryan snorts and crosses his arms over his chest. “We sure did. Fifty bucks, the fine was. You dug through your wallet and insisted on giving the officer a picture of Mariah Carey along with the money.” 

 

“Man, I don’t remember that at all. I must’ve been so fucking drunk,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut and dramatically rubbing my forehead as if I were hungover right now. “Mariah Carey? Really?” 

 

“I always thought you were more of a Whitney guy,” Ryan notes, and I feign indignation. 

 

“I _am_! I’m a Whitney guy!” 

 

He laughs at my terrible dramatisation and I see the tiny lines forming at the corners of his eyes, and that only makes him more endearing. I can picture myself running my thumb softly over them as we lay together, and he’d kiss my hand when it gets close to his lips. I used to long to have that with him, that softness, that familiarity without refrain or hesitation like we saw so often in young lovers on the street. 

 

My phone lights up on my lap as though to chastise me for those thoughts and I look down at it, Zack’s name displayed on the screen. I look at Ryan, who’s staring at me, clearly expecting to see whether I’m going to pick up or not. 

 

Thing is, I always pick up when Zack calls. If I don’t, he’ll think I’m up to something suspicious. Which, I am not. So I pick up, and don’t check to see whether Ryan’s still looking.

 

“Hello?” 

 

“Yeah man, we need to know if Sarah’s coming on tour with us or not. Tony’s booking the flights.” 

 

“Shit, already?”

 

“Already. Told you about it last week, did you forget?” 

 

“Well, I—” I glance at Ryan in the passenger seat. He’s trying very hard to look like he’s not listening in. I know him, though. He’s always been a terrible actor. “She doesn’t like long flights,” I say into my phone eventually. 

 

“So she won’t be coming with us?” 

 

“Tour’s only for two weeks,” I tell him, although I know very well I’m only trying to convince myself that this is the right call. Sarah and I have talked about it. Three weeks is where we draw the line. “It’ll be fine.” 

 

“Alright, then. Good night.” 

 

“Night,” I say before hanging up. Zack’s always been straightforward, and this is one of the times I’m thankful for it. No unnecessary _how are you_ ’s and _I hope you’re good_ ’s. Pick up, get answers, hang up. Efficient. 

 

When I turn to Ryan to apologise for the call, the journal has left the dashboard and is open in his hands. 

 

“Oh, yeah. That’s what we were here for in the first place,” I say, but there’s a lump in my throat. What’s there to be afraid of? It’s his own words. He knows them. 

 

His eyes travel to my face, and they’re unreadable. For a split second I’m reminded of when he told me we couldn’t go on anymore, and a sharp pain shoots through my stomach. “Did you read this?” 

 

Fuck. 

 

“I, uh—” I regret the word as soon as it comes out of my mouth. Should’ve said no. Should’ve said no. _Should’ve fucking said no._ What’s so difficult about that? I say no, he gets out of the car, I drive away and never see him again. End of story, Zack style. 

 

But God knows I don’t want it to end; the lack of closure we had was the only thing that kept that hidden glimmer of hope going, deep inside me. _One day, you’ll see him again. You’ll see him again, and you’ll talk it out._

 

Only I never really thought about what came after that one day. Or if there is anything after that at all. Now, with it staring at me in the face, the only thing I feel is fear. Fear, and maybe a tinge of regret, tucked away somewhere. 

 

“You read it.” There is no anger in Ryan’s voice, no disappointment. In fact, his tone and his expression are so neutral I have no idea what he means or what he’s going to say next. 

 

I nod, some part of me absolutely mortified, the other part relieved that he didn’t just open the door and leave. “Just a couple of entries. I’m really sorry, I know I shouldn’t have. It was a really stupid move and I just— I have no excuse. I’m sorry.” 

 

He makes a noise that I need to process to realise it’s a laugh. A short one, more of a chuckle, but a laugh nonetheless. “You must’ve been so confused.” 

 

I wait for him to say something else, to try and justify the words his past self has laid down on paper, but he doesn’t. He stays quiet, pensive. Maybe he’s also thinking about how we used to be. How we could’ve been if only he’d been a little more honest and I’d been a little less passionate. 

 

Could’ve beens. I could build an entire life on them, live my life in another dimension where he never went away. Where I never had to write songs about him instead of for him. 

 

“So, it’s not true?” I say quietly, partly because I’m not sure my voice won’t break if I speak up. That would suck. “The things you wrote in there, they’re not true?” 

 

I think of how he called love stupid and inconsequential in writing, and yet how it’s the exact thing that tore us apart. 

 

“There’s no point in writing a journal if I lie in it,” he states, and _now_ I don’t know what to think. I nervously roll and unroll a piece of paper I found in my pocket between my thumb and index finger, the remnants of a receipt for something I don't remember buying. Ryan’s ringed fingers are holding the notebook, still open on his lap, lines and lines of black ink running on the pages. I don’t recognise this entry. He exhales, a resigned sigh. “It’s the truth.” He pauses, his words hanging in the air between us. My heart’s started to beat out of my chest. “Probably the rawest version of it you’ll ever find, actually.” 

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I blurt out, because it seems like I can’t physically hold that question back anymore. 

 

Why didn’t you tell me? We could’ve made it right, we could’ve been happy, Ry, we could’ve been good. I wouldn’t have all these regrets that come back to me one too many times and leave me breathless and feeling bittersweet. 

 

And, if we were bound to break, at least I would've known that I had to get back up. I wouldn't wonder. I'd love my wife like she deserves to be loved and sleep easy at night. 

 

But he looks at me, and now the smile on his lips is sad. Shit, can I rewind? Go back to the moment where we were both laughing about being drunk idiots together. Not this. “You only read the first entries, didn’t you?” He clicks his tongue, shifting his gaze back to the street, as though he can’t bear to look me in the eye to speak to me. “The sweet part. You’ve only ever seen the sweet part in me, Brendon, the things you wanted to see. Everything else was just— just props to you. Just decor. ” 

 

“What’s in the other entries?” I ask him. In my pocket, I’m tearing the paper to shreds, little bits falling through my fingers. 

 

“Nothing you’d want to know." He closes the notebook but doesn’t look up from it. He’s still avoiding me, I can tell.  "Doubt, probably a little self-hatred. Y’know, the usual.” 

 

I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t. Bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t think about whether he was ever in a dark place, and how we never noticed. 

 

After a while of silence, he says, oh-so-quietly, “I should go.” 

 

I say nothing. 

 

I see him finally looking at me from the corner of my eye, probably expecting something. I say nothing. I don’t know what to say that won’t make my nose prickle and my eyes sting. 

 

He opens the car door and pushes it open, stepping outside. I say nothing. 

 

I hear his footsteps on the concrete, even through my car window. The sound bounces around in my head, and suddenly things lock into place. 

 

I open my own door and step out of the car. 

 

“Tell me,” I say. “I want to know.” 

 

_I have to know._

 

He stops. Turns around. 

 

“Tell me,” I repeat. 

 

“No,” he says, “you’ll hate me.”

 

His face is painted with shadows beneath the lamppost. This is the boy to whom I offered my heart, once upon a time. The boy who broke it but kept one little piece forever.

 

“Maybe.” 

 

It’d be so much easier to hate him. Kick him out of my life, memories and all. Paint a big, red cross over everything we had. Censor it, ban it. 

 

But I know, as I walk up to him, that I could never. I could never hate him the way I loved him. 

 

So he takes a deep breath, and he tells me. He tells me about Keltie, about how he knew he’d have to choose sooner or later. That he’d have to break a heart, no matter what. That he chose her even though he was falling for me, because it made sense. Because he was too scared to be alone, too scared that choosing me would mean losing me. He tells me about making Spencer promise to take care of me, about hating himself long after we parted ways. He tells me how he tried things to make him forget, relief in the form of little pills and glass bottles. How it didn’t work. How time was the only thing that made it better. The only thing that let him put all of those memories to the back of his mind. Until me. Until my text. He tells me how happy he was to see my name on the screen. 

 

And after all of that, he says, “I’m sorry.” 

 

I look at him, at his face, at those eyes whose honey-colour I used to get lost in, at those lips I used to kiss. Those are still the same. He’s still the same. 

 

Our faces are close, I realise, so close, and slowly, hesitantly, his mouth dips down onto mine. I let him kiss me before I kiss him back, feeling his lips against mine for the first time in years. It’s soft, it’s innocent, and I feel a tear roll down my cheek as I close my eyes. It’s okay. His hand’s travelled up to my face and cups it gently, his thumb grazing my jaw. I don’t let the paralysing finality of this get to me, not just yet. I keep my eyes closed and feel him, not just his mouth but him, his emotions, his doubts, his unanswered questions, his dilemmas, _all_ of him. I let him seep into me, so that there’s something of his I can keep forever even if his journal is gone. Even if he’s gone. 

 

When our mouths part, we don’t speak. He smiles sadly, holding the little notebook close, and nods slightly, as though to thank me. As though to say goodbye. 

 

And then, he turns and walks away. At that moment, I tell myself that this is something I’ll always remember, no matter what happens, no matter how old I get. His figure walking away from me on Fifth Street, my heart thumping against my ribcage, the shiver travelling down my spine. My hands are cold, but I don’t stuff them into my pockets. 

 

I watch as his car headlights turn on, as he makes a U-turn and drives away without looking back. I think I see him wipe at his face, but maybe that’s just an illusion. And maybe he did look back in his rearview mirror, because I learned that I’m not the only one who dwells in the past. 

 

We can never change the past, but we can learn to live with it. 

 

Or, as I tell myself as I walk back to my car and sit down in the driver’s seat in a haze, we can live without it. 

 

Without it.

 

Without it.

 

Without him. 

 

I sit in my car as I try to convince myself that his ghost won’t linger around. 

 

I’ll learn to live without him. I managed, once. 

 

Right? 


End file.
